


In the End, There's 'Us'

by Fenix21



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg, Wincest - Freeform, mpreg!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 11:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2386079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenix21/pseuds/Fenix21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has a secret, and it's turning what should be one of the happiest moments of his life into torture, but Sam's not going to let him forget the true meaning of what it is they've created together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the End, There's 'Us'

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Mercy Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004920) by [ObsidianRomance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianRomance/pseuds/ObsidianRomance). 



> This work is a companion piece to 'Mercy Heart' by ObsidianRomance. God bless her for the wonderful inspiration. It will stand by itself, but it will mean so much more if you read hers first.

Dean should have been happy. Not _happy_ happy, not like bouncing off the walls, big grins, picking out baby names sort of happy because, well, that wasn’t Dean; but he shouldn’t be sitting across the room looking a tangle between panicked and six feet under while he stared at the plastic stick in his hand that would make most people feel giddy at least and elated at best.

Sam sat down on the edge of the bed, mimicking his brother’s posture of elbows on knees, fingers knitted together loosely and hanging, but twitching to reach out and touch because that was what Sam did. He touched people. It was how he connected with his world. He was always the first to sympathize, the first to offer condolences, the first to give a supporting hug, the first to cling to his older brother when the hunt hadn’t gone quite right and one or both of them had tripped and fallen a little too close to this side of Death’s door.

But Dean wasn’t like that. He didn’t like the touching, not usually, not outside of the bed at any rate. He would tolerate Sam’s clinginess with eye rolls and quick pats, sometimes even allow him to snuggle a little if he were in a really good mood or the hunt had proven particularly life threatening to his little brother. So, Sam resisted the urge to reach out and take his hands, to try and get a good look into his eyes so he could assess what was going on inside Dean’s head; because he was good at that, too. Reading Dean was like reading a book. It ought to be. Sam had been reading that book all thirty-one years of his life with hardly a reprieve except for the short stint at Stanford, and he’d caught up from that absence in less than a week.

But this tense silence had the quiet roar of bad memory behind it, and Sam was having trouble zeroing in on what could be causing Dean’s untoward reaction. So, he tried the last resort that either of them usually took. Talking.

“Dean…I get that it’s a surprise—well, shock really, I guess—and if you don’t…. Well, just know that I understand if you don’t—.”

“No,” Dean said flatly.

Sam waited a moment for Dean to clarify, but when nothing else seemed forthcoming, he probed again. “No, you don’t want it. Or no, I’m wrong?”

“Just…no!” Dean chucked the stick across the room and it banged into the steel trash can in the corner.

Sam flinched. He had his answer then. He was surprised at how much it stung, though. In the space of ten minutes he’d managed to work his way through shock, surprise, fear, and doubt, to come out the other end on thrilled to death. Dean wasn’t, though, and that worried Sam. Dean had long ago professed to wanting a family, being tired of the job, and wanting to settle down. Now that he was faced with a future that was probably as close to a dream come true as either of them were going to get, he looked like he wanted to rabbit at the first opportunity. Which left Sam wondering if he himself was the problem. Maybe Dean still wanted all of those family things, he just never intended it to be with Sam that he had them.

And here was where Dean got good at what Dean did. Sam wasn’t the only one with a patent on reading his brother.

Dean shook his head, running his hands over the soft bristle of his short brown hair. “Sammy, it’s not what you think. I—I just don’t know if I can…”

“Hey, hey,” Sam crooned, thinking he was starting to see the issue here. “It’ll be okay. It’s not common, but it’s not like it never happens. We’ll—.”

“No, Sam. No. That’s not it!” Dean launched from the chair and paced the small space to the bathroom and back to the motel room door, thumbs hooked in his jeans pockets, until he suddenly stopped in the middle of the floor and one hand grazed across his still flat stomach and then he slumped against the wall. 

Sam was up in a second, taking Dean by the shoulders, guiding him to the bed to sit down, kneeling down in front of him. He wanted to talk, to tell Dean that everything was going to be okay. They would make it okay. That’s what they did. It was their job. He wanted to assure his brother that he wanted this, he wanted it with all his heart and soul, so there didn’t need to be any doubts on that score; but he also wanted Dean to be okay with it, and if he wasn’t then that was okay, too. 

But before he could say any of it, Dean grabbed his hand hard and pulled, pressing it flat across his middle. When he spoke, his voice was graveled and choked with tears. “Sammy, a year ago…there was a—a baby, and I—I couldn’t…”

Dean hadn’t planned on telling Sam like this. He wasn’t really sure he’d ever intended to tell him at all. He’d promised himself on the side of that road all those months ago that he was going to shoulder this alone. This was going to be his burden. He was never going to put it on Sam’s shoulders that he couldn’t give their baby what it needed to stay alive. He was never going to color Sam’s already scared memories with the blood of their own child. But here he was, spilling his guts out in disconnected, ill-fitting pieces that were cutting Sam in ways that made Dean’s insides flinch because he had no better way to make his brother understand what he was really trying to say. 

Sam was quick on the uptake, though. He always had been. He couldn’t be Dean Winchester’s brother and not be quick. “Oh god, Dean…”

“I wanted to tell you, Sammy. I did, I swear. I just…. The time was never right, and I didn’t even know when it happened that—that it _had_ happened.” Dean was close to hysterical, as close as he ever got, rambling almost unintelligibly. But Sam was really good at Dean’s unintelligible. He was well versed in everything from the pillow muffled go-the-fuck-away-and-let-me-sleep unintelligible to the being choked by a demon would-you-please-kill-this-sonofabitch unintelligible. 

Sam flexed his fingers against Dean’s stomach, used his other hand to squeeze and rub at the back of Dean’s bowed neck. “Dean, why didn’t you say something?” he asked in the barest whisper.

Dean shook his head slowly. Sam could tell the tears were coming—slowly—but they were coming. He could feel the tension of them in the muscles beneath his kneading fingers. He pulled gently until Dean gave in and dropped forward to rest his forehead in the curve of Sam’s neck. The words, when they finally came, were in fits and starts.

“I couldn’t, Sam. I couldn’t lay that on you. You were already so broken, barely holding together. I didn’t know what it would do to you if you knew. I thought—hell, I don’t know what I thought!” Dean turned his face into the curve of Sam’s neck. “I didn’t even know what was happening until it was all over, Sam.”

Sam flexed his fingers again under Dean’s hand where it was still trapped against his abdomen, the metal of Dean’s belt buckle biting into them equally, and tried to think back; back to the afternoon a year ago that Dean had called, voice shaky, and asked Sam for something stronger than beer. Whiskey he’d said, and the good stuff, too. Sam had dug deep and flipped for the best bottle of single malt the local liquor store had to offer and gotten back to the motel just as the Impala pulled into the parking lot.

Dean moved stiffly getting out of the car, the smile he managed pulled tight at the corners, his eyes feverish with pain, leaving Sam to wonder just what kind of ‘altercation’ Dean had gotten into and what the consequences had been. He tried to help Dean inside, but his brother shook him off.

“I’m fine, Sam.”

“You don’t look fine,” Sam said, watching as Dean fumbled with the key card to the room door. His hand was shaking so bad he couldn’t make plastic meet with slot, and Sam finally gave up and took the card. 

“Damn it,” Dean hissed and impacted the doorframe with a shoulder before Sam could get it open.

“Dean?” Sam put a concerned hand on Dean’s arm, but was shoved away almost instantly as Dean uttered another curse and huffed a pained breath. Sam was persistent, though. “Dean, what’s going on with you? What happened?”

Dean shoved through the door when Sam finally slotted the key in the lock and started stripping down almost immediately. “I’m gonna take a hot shower. Find a game or something on the TV, huh?”

Sam scowled hard at his brother’s retreating back. “Dean, what happened? Can I do anything?”

“No! Sam, you can’t!” Dean bellowed. He cursed under his breath, hanging his weight briefly from his arms in the doorway of the bathroom and bowing his head. “Just…leave it, Sammy. Please. Pour the damn whiskey. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Sam did pour the whiskey and then waited while Dean spent the better part of an hour in the bathroom using up what was probably the motel’s full supply of hot water for rest of the day. He came out of the bathroom in sweats and a t-shirt looking a little better than when he went in, cheeks flushed with heat from the shower, hair dripping into his face. 

He moved to the bed with a hesitant gate that usually indicated an injury while Sam watched him with a concerned frown. Sam held out the whiskey to him. Dean took it, staring at it a full minute before swearing harshly and then downing the triple shot in one breath and holding the glass out for a refill. Sam didn’t ask questions, he just topped it off and then picked up the towel Dean had dropped on the bed and began rubbing the excess water out of his brother’s hair.

It was when Sam started to turn away to find the requested game on TV, that Dean’s arms suddenly snaked around him, tugging him in close and tucking him between his thighs. He buried his face in Sam’s stomach, pressing his nose into his belly button. They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, Sam scratching his fingers lightly through his brother’s hair until Dean turned up bloodshot, alcohol glazed eyes and grinned at Sam in way that said something had gone very wrong.

“Find that game?” Dean asked. 

“Yeah,” Sam said carefully. He knew when to push and when not to push, and when pushing was necessary even if neither of them wanted it; but this wasn’t one of those times. Dean’s eyes were begging Sam— _begging_ him—not to ask any more questions. He nodded a little, more in determination to acknowledge this need of Dean’s than in answer to his actual question. “Yeah, sure.”

This time Dean let Sam go when he pulled back to turn on the television. He stared at the glass still in his hand, again like it might be poison, or maybe his only escape—from what, Sam couldn’t begin to guess—and downed the second triple of whiskey just like he’d done the first. He collapsed back on the bed, folding an arm under his head and sticking his gaze to the TV, pointedly ignoring the concerned looks sliding from the corner of Sam’s eye for the next twenty minutes until he passed out so hard that Sam couldn’t even wake him to get him under the covers.

Sam pulled the comforter and blanket from the empty bed eventually and curved himself around Dean’s body, which had managed to knot itself into a fetal ball, then covered them both and tried to pretend that he was dreaming when he felt the body tucked against him shaking with chest shattering sobs deep in the night.

The next morning Dean had been nearly his usual self with a side of surly from the whiskey hangover. Sam was cautious in asking any direct questions about what had happened the day before and gave up entirely six hours later when no results were forthcoming except to have succeeded in firing Dean’s precarious temper.

They had never talked about that afternoon since. 

Sam pressed his cheek against the side of Dean’s head, turned to place a kiss above his ear. “Dean, why do you always try and go it alone. I’m your brother, I could’ve—.”

But what could he have done? Really. Even now, Sam had no way to tell the depth of emptiness in his brother’s gut over the loss of a life he didn’t even known he’d been harboring. His own insides were tightening slowly into a painful knot of regret—for so many reasons—but mostly for never having the chance to know there was a piece of himself and Dean in the world for however short a time.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I’m so sorry.” Dean was pressing himself deeper into the curve of Sam’s neck, the tears escalating fast toward the kind of silent sobbing that could break a body to pieces, and Sam was briefly reminded of that night and trying to ignore Dean’s sobs then because it’s what Dean would have wanted, and the knot in his stomach yanked hard and left him breathless with guilt.

“No, Dean. No.” Sam freed his hand and pushed Dean away from him, forcing him to look up. “Don’t you dare be sorry.” He pushed his fingers up under Dean’s t-shirt and grazed the tips back and forth against the sparse soft hair on Dean’s belly. “What’s done is…done. It’s sad—a fucking tragedy, in fact!” he laughed tightly. “But we have this now.” His fingers grazed and flexed again on Dean’s skin, pressing tenderly. “We have this…and we should celebrate it.”

Dean’s eyes were still half wild with guilt and fear when he returned Sam’s intent gaze. “What if it happens again, Sam?”

“It won’t,” Sam said quickly.

“But—.”

“And if it does, then I’ll be here with you. All the way. One hundred percent,” Sam said earnestly. “You won’t be alone this time. I won’t let that happen.”

Some of the tension bled out of Dean and he straightened up a little, looking down to where Sam’s huge palm was pressed against his midsection under his shirt. His mouth hitched up on one side in an involuntary smile. “You’re not going to be able to keep your hands off us, are you?”

“As if I can now?” Sam smirked, his heart warming impossibly at Dean’s unconscious use of the word ‘us,’ and to prove his point he took Dean’s mouth in a long, slow-burn kiss.

When they came up for air, Dean’s eyes were slightly bewildered. “I said ‘us,’ didn’t I?”

Sam grinned big. “Yeah. You kinda did.”

Dean’s eyes shot wide, and his mouth formed a silent ‘oh’ of astonishment. “We’re…having a baby.”

“Yup.” Sam tried hard to stifle the laugh rippling through him at Dean’s utter astonishment. 

Dean’s hands suddenly scrabbled at his shirt, tugging it up so he could stare at the skin to skin contact of Sam’s tanned fingers splayed across his pale belly. He laughed, a little hesitantly at first and then it peeled up out of him, and he collapsed backward on the bed, dragging Sam with him. He covered Sam’s hand with both of his own and pressed down firmly, staring up at him, eyes bright with newborn joy. 

“That’s us in there,” he said, tugging a little at Sam’s wrist for emphasis. “We did this.”

“Yeah, Dean.” Sam said softly, dipping his head to plant a kiss at his brother’s temple. There would be more guilt later. He was sure of that. It wasn’t gone completely. Dean could never let go of things like that easily. He would beat himself up over it more in the months to come, and Sam would just keep doing exactly what he was doing right now…reminding his brother of the wonderful life growing inside him at that very moment that they had created together. He nuzzled Dean’s cheek and breathed soft near his ear,

“Yeah, we did, and it’s…amazing.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> After reading 'Mercy Heart' I assumed Sam would be angry that Dean had tried to suffer the miscarriage of their baby all by himself, but it just didn't turn out that way. Guess Sam doesn't have it in him to hold a grudge. Although, I'm still tempted to write an alternate version where he is well and truly pissed at his bull headed big brother for trying to go it all alone...again. We'll see.


End file.
